I wonder if Nick was one of Eve’s many suitors.
As for Conrad himself, my instincts whisper that he’s telling the truth. I don’t think he would have chased me down the street to defend himself otherwise.
The rain finally starts, with drops that are fat and icy. I start to reach for the umbrella I’ve stuffed in the pocket of my anorak but decide to run instead. Twice I look back over my shoulder, to be sure I’m not being followed. By Guy or anyone else. I’ve been so preoccupied with Guy’s deceptions, I’ve pushed the events of last night out of my mind. I have to stay focused on those, too. Someone is trying to fuck with me, maybe even hurt me.
I’m relieved when I reach the inn to find that the woman who checked me in is standing at the front desk. Maybe earlier, when Derek and I found the desk unmanned, was merely a fluke.
I go straight to my room, taking the old staircase to the second floor. Though I had to cover only two blocks in the rain, my anorak is damp and I quickly shrug it off. My body feels chilled, and it’s hard to know if it’s from the rain or what the morning has served up.
I cross the room to the bed and flop across it sideways on my back, with my feet dangling over the edge. The room is papered in green-and-white toile, with curtains and bedspread to match, the kind of charming mix that under other circumstances I’d love to relax in. I stare at the ceiling as tears start to well in my eyes. I feel alone, at loss.
I think suddenly of a note card I found on my mother’s desk just after she died. Typed on the card was a quote she’d read somewhere: “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters to what lies within us.” I knew my mother had placed it there as inspiration, a mantra to repeat during the fight for her life. What she’d be telling me now, I’m sure, is to summon the strength inside of me.
I propel myself off the bed and take a seat at the small antique desk by the window. I do a Google search on my laptop for locksmiths in Tribeca and jot down the number for the one closest to my apartment. Next I text my assistant the info, explaining that I want her to arrange for the locks on my apartment door to be changed and to overnight me a set of the keys. This will guarantee Guy can’t gain access. I bought the place a year before I met him, with spoils from my second book, and the prenup protects it.
I take a breath and start composing my next email. It’s to a friend of mine from college, Susan Bruno, who’s now a highly regarded defense lawyer in Manhattan. Because of her jam-packed schedule, we rarely get together more than twice a year, but she’s always happy to answer the occasional legal question by email or phone. I ask if she has the name of a top-notch criminal defense attorney in the Albany, New York, area, promising that I’ll explain later. I pause, wondering how to frame the next question. I know I can trust Susan—she’s the master of discretion—but I momentarily recoil from putting the words out into the universe. I don’t have a choice, though, and I take the plunge: “And a divorce lawyer. Unfortunately I need one of those, too.”
A moment later, my phone rings from inside my purse. To my surprise, it’s Sandra. Considering the way she took off yesterday, nearly leaving skid marks, I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear from her again.
“Sorry to rush off from lunch like that,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it. I know you’ve got this big event coming up.”
Though I no longer consider her a potential ally, I’m glad that she at least doesn’t seem miffed.
“And were you okay with the bill? I realized later that they might only take cash or a check, and I’d left you high and dry.”
“No, they accept credit cards—I was fine.”
“Good. I’ll give you a call later this week. I still want you to see the venue where we’re holding the event.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, though I have no intention of following up on her offer.
Something starts to nudge at my brain as soon as I disconnect, and I sense it relates to a comment Sandra made. It’s an hour later before I realize that it was her comment on the restaurant only taking cash or checks. My checkbook. I tossed it one day in the drawer of my desk, and I don’t think I retrieved it when I packed. I tear through my messenger bag, and roller bags, but there’s no sign of it.
I check the time. Almost two thirty. Guy could very well be back from the client lunch—if there even was one—and I don’t dare return to the house today. I’ll have to go tomorrow when he’s safely at work. I dread the idea, but I don’t want to leave the checkbook for him to find.
For the rest of the afternoon, I stay put in the room, munching on free bags of chips from the kitchenette off the lobby and trying to hold my panic at bay. Derek texts to see how I’m doing and promises to phone in a while. Later there’s a call from Susan.